


Dis Manibus

by EssayOfThoughts



Series: Memento Mori [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Complex relationships, Confusing relationships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Non-Romantic Relationships, Other, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes trying to overcome grief doesn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Andrej has been doing well for several long months when she finds he is not matching to his usual schedule. They have found a comfortable pattern, over those months, of waking, eating, training, eating, training, talking, eating, sleep. Just as Wanda had grown accustomed to the patterns she had formed with Pietro, so too had she grown accustomed to the patterns she had formed with Andrej, if not to the same intensity.

That he had broken them made her uneasy.

Wanda wandered that evening, until she found Andrej in the rec room, with Vision and the others. They are clustered, standing in a group, bar Andrej who is perched on a billiards table, heels kicking against the wood, and Hawkeye, who leans into the conversation over the back of the sofa. When Wanda enters quiet falls. Wanda’s eyes narrow.

“We were considering something,” Vision says, by way of an explanation, and moves to one side. Behind him Doctor Cho stands, neat in her tidy white-and-blue medical gear, one hand light on Vision’s magenta wrist, as though she had just been checking for a pulse.

“We know you grieve your brother.” It is Thor speaking now, and he sets Mjolnir down, with a gentle kind of certainty. “I more than most know what it is to lose a sibling irretrievably, if not in the same way. We were considering things which might help you.”

Wanda blinks, eyes darting between them all. Doctor Cho’s voice is soft when she speaks. “We have a sample of your brother’s DNA, and we have my Cradle technology. Andrej has said that you have said you have some of your brother’s memories. We were wondering if from that you could reconstruct his consciousness, if you were as connected as the links you've made to Andrej and to Vision suggest.”

Wanda’s throat and mouth go dry. Her head twitches, and then she shakes, not her head, but her whole body, shuddering and shivering, as though freezing. “No,” She manages to get out. “No.” She cannot think of this. Think of her brother back. She is certain she has not enough memories in her head to make her brother as he was, she is certain of it, and if she does not have all his memories, he would come back _wrong_. Looking at their faces she does not know if they understand this, and dares not look into their heads, not now. She wonders if any of them would fully understand what it would mean to have Pietro back, but _wrong_. They are not twins. None of them are half a whole as she and Pietro were, as she still feels she is. If half the whole is wrong, and riddled through with holes, so too must the other half be.

She dares not bring her brother back.

A cold hand closes around hers. Small fingers. Small bones. Andrej’s soft skin, not Vision’s metal flesh. Wanda drags in a breath through a mouth already too dry. The breath dries it out more and when Andrej breathes a mist of snow and ice before her she feels more grateful than she thinks she ought.

“Wanda,” Andrej says. “Talk to us. We considered this _for_ you. What do you think?”

Wanda swallows. Wanda wraps her fingers around Andrej’s, uncurls them, and curls them around again. Her other hand, her right hand, twitches back, as though to take Pietro’s. Pietro’s hand does not touch hers. Pietro’s hand is not there. Pietro, she reminds herself, is dead. Wanda shakes her head. “I can’t. I can’t. He’d come back _wrong_ and that’s worse than him not here at all.”

Andrej tugs at her hand, the Widow moves forward. None of the others move, just watch. Gently, Natasha and Andrej guide her to a chair, settle her down. When she focusses again she sees Hawkeye opposite her, still perched on the sofa. His eyes meet hers, pale blue eyes to her dark brown, and, ever, ever so slightly, he nods. Wanda remembers the talk he gave when Novi Grad flew, and draws in a breath.

“I want my brother back. Of course I do. But I want _him_ , and not some clone created in a Cradle, not some lie made of memories and flesh. I want Pietro, and he is buried.” The others are still watching, quiet, and Wanda knows she must speak quickly, must banish this conversation, before her mind loses sense, gives in to loss, and agrees to try to make her brother again. She wants her brother back, more than anything, but she cannot let him come back wrong. “I don’t know if I have enough of his memories. Even if I do how are we to wake him? He is human, not an android like Vision. A strike as powerful as the one which woke Vision would destroy him, would kill him all over again.”

Thor nods slowly. “This is true,” He says, “But Mjolnir answers to me. I can summon a lesser strike, should it be necessary. Besides, Stark did plan to wake him differently before your brother unplugged it all.”

“And,” Vision says, “I have the stone. It may help you find memories of your brother, or even hold some of its own, given its connection to you through your gifts.”

Wanda looks over them all. They are watching her wordlessly. Even the Captain, and Colonel Rhodes. Stark is nowhere to be seen, but all the others of their team, all who had a part at Novi Grad, all who were there when her brother died. Natasha’s face wears a slight frown, and she crouches before Wanda. Her voice is pitched so low that only Wanda can hear.

“You can take time. He was your brother, your twin, not ours. You don’t have to choose now.” The Widow’s thumbs graze gently over the skin under Wanda’s eyes, sweeping away the tears that threaten to overwhelm her. “You have time to choose. You can think this over as much as you need, talk to whoever you need, search your mind for memories as much as you need.” Natasha locks her eyes with Wanda’s and her words are as open in her eyes and tone, as in her mind. Wanda feels the words rising, auburn and blood on clear pale snow, even as Natasha says them, “It’s your _choice_ Wanda, more than anything. It is not anyone else’s.”

Wanda nods, and bows her head, and lets her tears splash her hands.

 

* * *

 

Andrej knows the choice Wanda is making is not a choice. He had seen the twins’ closeness before it was bound eternal by their gifts, and knew neither would be well without the other. It is not a choice for Wanda, when the options are to be half, or to be whole.

“Wanda?” Andrej’s voice is gentle, and he waits for her to look up at him, at the emptied room, before speaking on. “What do you want us to do?”

Wanda doesn’t shrug. She doesn’t shake her head. There is no uncertainty in her posture, in her face. When her mind links to Andrej’s, her quietly brooding cathedral to his ever-moving snowstorm, the silence is breathtaking. Nothing in her mind is singing. Nothing in her mind is dancing. All in her mind is thinking, each part sat at their pew and studying their scripture, studying the core tenets of themselves. Dotting amongst her scarlet and black are spots of silver, reading the scripture too, but migrating together. There are even some of blue and as Andrej rises like a cloud over the glowing congregation he sees just how interwoven she was with her brother.

_ Wanda?  _ His voice echoes in the silence of her cathedral. _Wanda?_ No part of her mind seems to respond and Andrej floats, silent, watching. A small sphere of scripture floats to him, brown and black, edged in scarlet and full of memories. The fingers of his thoughtform tap over the cover and let it loose, floating back down to the cathedral floor. The sound it makes in all the silence is soft. _I cannot choose for you. What do you want us to do?_ The silence remains, and Andrej whispers almost in plea, _Witch’s honour_.

There is nothing but the turning of the pages of memory, the silence of the choir, and Wanda, rising from the crypts of her mind.

 

* * *

 

Wanda wakes from meditation, from tears, from memory and the madness of grief. She had not let herself sink into emotion in too long; the dissociation she had learned when the grief became too much had let her separate herself, and she had needed the full feeling of emotion again. Andrej’s voice is soft as snow and sharp as shards, and contrasts against the constancy of her cathedral. She rises on wings of memory and thought, and knows her thoughtform looks like blood.

 

* * *

 

_ Wanda? _

Her thoughtform is both a bloodied angel and a fallen one, but the wings it rises on spread so wide as wrap about all her congregation in protection, scarlet and blue and snow-white alike. Her voice is a sorrowful sigh, in the expanse of the ceiling, but it is the first response Wanda has offered in all the hours they have hoped for her to talk. _No. Not yet._

Andrej does not let his surprise show, _To bringing back Pie-_

_ To an answer now. I must **think** _ **.  **

Andrej is careful not to point out that she has been doing naught but think for hours now. _Not that. Do you want to talk to any of us? Do you want peace and quiet? To you want to go and sit at his gra-_

_ No. Yes. Yes. Please. _

Andrej blinks his eyes open, and finds the tablet Stark had pressed into his hands when he’d first started training his powers. _She doesn’t like me,_ he’d said. _With reason probably, but she’s a part of the team, and looks like you may be too. If either of you need to contact any of us, here._

He taps it, his fingers twist, and he sends a single message. It is mere moments before Vision joins them. They do not speak as Vision picks up Wanda, and carries her outside.

 

* * *

 

Wanda curls on the grass by her brother’s grave, and locks her fingers into the soil and verdant blades. Her eyes are glowing scarlet as she turns her gift on herself, tendrils dancing through her mind, bladed and gentle, swift and soft, and finding all the blue and silver and grey they can. Their gathering in the congregation makes this easier, and beneath her great red wings the new-swirling mind of blue finds refuge.

_ You are safe here _ , she thinks, _Even if you never have a body again, you are safe_. The memories she holds she holds close. They are her brother, in every aching breath, from the first memories he showed her when their bond was new-made, to the last gasping breath before he died. Darting swift and coloured in silvers, they are all that remain of the strength she used to lean on. The fingers of her thoughtform run over their silvered edges, and she dares not let them go.

 

* * *

 

Vision stays nearby. Andrej’s cold outside has warped weather patterns when he was particularly worried, and the android does not think the ice crackling over the green spelled anything good. Snowsmoke returned to the warm indoors, and Vision stayed, burgundy and magenta by scarlet and black, to watch over Wanda. The thread Wanda links to his mind is as delicate as embroidery, as strong as rope. It stays, golds and reds from both of them and riddled with black and green, between their minds. Vision does not accept the tacit invitation to enter Wanda’s mind, and she does not accept the same to his. Vision stands nearby, and Vision waits.

 

* * *

 

Wanda wonders, Wanda thinks. Wanda strings together links, and makes a method through the madness of grief, and decides what must be done.

She cannot go on without her twin, but she dares not bring back her brother wrong.

Her mind sings down the silence of the string, and Vision’s gold gleams warm and glad.

 

* * *

 

_ Vision? _

_ Wanda. _ His tone is polite, is warm, and the gold is gladness shining down the rope bridge.

_ I need the Mind Stone _ .

 

* * *

 

Vision’s mind is dancing and silent, a network of neurons, of pulsing shadowed cells, which all glow with stark clarity against the dividing lines of darkness. Each cell is individual, is apart from the others, but all are turning over the same problem: The stone is his to guard, he knows, but he does not want one he knows as friend to know pain even more.

The image he sends to Wanda is frivolous and false, but represents what he would do if he could. Himself, plucking the stone from his brow, and tossing it to Wanda. 

_ You are welcome to what aid it can give, _ he says _, But I cannot take it from me._

The joy Wanda sends to him is bright and beautiful, and boldly red as blood.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Wanda sits opposite Vision, and her fingers frame his face. Her thumbs curl under his eyes, thumbnails lightly pressed against his nose. Her fingertips graze over the stone on his brow, fleeting repeatings of touch. With each touch the stone pulses. With each touch Vision sinks deeper into his mind, and Wanda’s eyes glow brighter.

 

* * *

 

Her mind is a dancing mantra, singing _Pietro, Pietro, Pietro_ over and over in the shadowed space of her mind. Vision’s mind is a great net of neurons around them, warping into and out of her mind with each grazing touch over the stone on his brow. Each time the net passes into her cathedral it illuminates brighter, allows her to spot specks of blue and silver tucked behind pillars, or hidden between pews.

Wanda tugs each piece of blue and silver closer, forms them into a single nested egg of light, a thing glowing like the moon. Sometimes the pieces she collects in are tiny, as small as a mote of dust, and other times they are huge, just hidden by some part of the structure of her mind. Wanda’s thumbs stroke over the stone on Vision’s brow, and his golden net of illumination shines still brighter.

 

* * *

 

_ This is odd _ , he says, at one point, and Wanda’s fingers pause their repetition.

_ Do you want to stop? _

Vision’s voice is warm as he replies, _No. It is quite pleasant to see my mind so clearly._

Wanda’s cathedral smiles around them, glowing scarlet, gold and red as blood, and when her fingers graze over his stone again her mind is illuminated more clearly than ever.

 

* * *

 

When each brightening pulse shows no more silver or blue, Wanda counts out how much of her brother’s mind was kept within hers. It is not all of it, not as she had hoped and prayed, but it is still much of what he was, of how he was. The fragments contain his humour and his seriousness, contain memories he had given her of moments she had not been with him and contain, above all, his perspective. As her sighing joy sings through her mind the golden candles flicker, but do not go out.

_ Is it enough? _ Vision asks.

_ Yes, _ Wanda sends. _I think so. But-- We’ll be making his body anew won’t we? He’s been in the ground too long to put him in the cradle._

_ Yes _ .

There is a scream, echoing up from the depths of Wanda’s mind, and all Vision can compare it to is the wave of weeping red when Wanda lost her brother.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, it ends, choked off into sobs, and pulsing black over the rich scarlet of Wanda’s mind. Vision sends magenta tendrils down their half-formed rope-bridge.

_ Wanda? _

Her voice is haggard when her mind speaks. _The brain won’t have memory-echoes._

Vision sends only a query.

_ Memory-echoes… the framework the memories remained in. It could plausibly fill in the gaps from memories missed. They had me replace memories stolen from people in training, and if there was a memory-echo it could fill itself in with only a little, but to put it into a different mind the entire memory had to go in. _ Wanda’s scarlet wraps around the orb of blue and silver, tendrils cradling each and every part of it. _This is all I have left of my brother now, and to have a hope to bring him back I will have to give up it all. No copy-memories, no trace-memories. Every single one, completely, and we don’t even know if it will work entirely right, and if it fails then I’ve not just lost my brother forever, I’ve lost all trace of him._

Vision’s tendrils stretch gently toward Wanda’s winged thoughtform. _Well_ , he says, and his voice is soft. _I suppose we must not fail then._

 

* * *

 

It takes time for them to remake Pietro’s body, and to ensure he would live once the Cradle had finished its work. This was not like Vision, a being born of technology and metal and mingled with flesh. This is a human, flesh, blood and bone, and while Doctor Cho has healed human bodies before, and made Vision from nothing, making a human is a different dance entirely.

Some days, during the setting up, Wanda sits in the Cradle room. She knows where the Cradle will sit, how big it will be, what it looks like. She knows where the cryo-tank with the DNA samples will sit, where the ancillary units for both will stand. The room is away from the other Cradles, the medical Cradles, and Wanda is almost glad that her brother will not be brought back in the midst of illness and injury.

 

* * *

 

When the sample is put into the Cradle Vision stands by Wanda as she watches. The outline of the body forms rapidly, lit up by the outlining lights, and Wanda murmurs quietly, “That is how you looked before you were made.”

Vision does not ask, but his quirked brow is enough for her to send over the memories she had asked of Doctor Cho, who had seen it closer, and ones from her own mind.

“It will not be long now,” He says. “And you will have your brother back.”

“Or a not-brother. It may not work. I may have warped the memories with how long I have kept them. I may have missed a part that’s essential. I may send him his memory of my memory, silvered from his mind and not meant to stay--,” Vision’s hand runs gently over Wanda’s shoulder.

“Worrying,” He says, “Will not help at this point, I think.” They watch the forming body in silence, watch face and body and limbs take shape, and take a breath. Vision half-smiles. “ _Nos vivere saluto_ ,” he says. “We who are about to live salute you.”

 

* * *

 

It pains Wanda to give up her brother’s memories to the not-brother in the Cradle. The mind is empty as she sends them threading over down the fresh-made bridge. Blue covers it, from the not-brother’s end, and Wanda has to summon up memories of the _old_ bond, the _true_ bond, to be sure they are different.

Behind her, directly behind, not canted right or left, Vision stands. His hands hold her arms, hold her upright, while Snowsmoke holds her hand as tightly as she holds his. Thor paces with his hammer, the Widow and Stark help Doctor Cho with the tech. Wanda watches all their minds dance and feels like a lone column of scarlet and crimson, giving up her treasured, meagre silver.

Andrej’s thumb rubs a cold line over her hand as the first memory goes. It is one Wanda knows well - the first moments of the first connection - but letting it go forces a sob, and a tear. Andrej’s thumb runs over her hand and Wanda anchors herself with its coldness. The next memory she pulls up from the depths, one she has never looked at but simply _knows_ , and sends it spinning down the connection to the fresh-made mind.

It is easier to let go of that one.

 

* * *

 

Wanda has to leave after she has sent the last of the memories over. She feels bereft, alone, in a way she did not before, without her brother’s memories there. Snowsmoke follows, briefly, but leaves when Wanda’s lashing scarlet makes the lights flicker. Wanda curls on her bed, in her room, and feels out the gashes and the gaps left by sending those memories to the not-brother.

She kept the connection to the not-brother’s mind. She needs to, to know if it truly _is_ Pietro when they wake him and not some doppelganger and to be able to stop him if he is a false creature, to wrest her brother’s memories back from the not-brother so they are safe in her mind again.

She curls, small in the corner, and feels the humming of the silver-and-blue mind, feels it speed, feels lightning strike it awake. Wanda watches the new-woken mind, and feels as though her mind is hugged when bright blue thought bowls down the bridge and into her great cavernous cathedral.

_ Wanda! Where are you? _

The thoughts of her brother’s mind are more ideas than words but they are _his_ and Wanda sobs with a golden-glad relief. The thoughts and directions she sends him are golden-tinted too, and it is only seconds before he is at her door. His hospital scrubs hang slightly oddly, as though he had pulled them on in a hurry, and Wanda launches herself from her bed, into her brother’s arms.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a break over the weekend before I post the last two chapters, as I will be away, and also WEEKEND. Please feel free to use this time to leave comments! They are always very much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

Long ago, when they were barely thirteen, they had decided the framework of their relationship. They were, they had decided, twins _first_. People could insinuate they were lovers, suggest incest, _lie_. But they would only ever be siblings.

They had decided acceptable actions - acceptable thoughts too, when they had gained their powers - but were always siblings first. No matter what the most affection they would let themselves show was an embrace, and kisses pressed to hair or brows or cheeks.

This didn’t really account for one of them returning from the dead.

 

* * *

 

Wanda crashes into Pietro’s arms and her lips meet his a moment later. Pietro’s mind stutters, body hesitates only a nanosecond before he scoops his sister up, kisses her back, and sets her on the bed. She curls in his lap, her brow pressed to his, their every breath intermingled, and kisses him again.

Pietro knows himself. Knows how he had loved his sister before waking, how he loves her now, their rules, their limitations, and sends them as a question to Wanda, even as he kisses her back.

Even uncertain he would never deny his sister the comfort she needs.

His fingers knot gently in her hair, as she sends a scarlet reply, soft as a sigh. Her memories and her feelings, her fear she would shape him in bringing him back. Pietro looks at her concerns and sets a single recurring question to check himself in his mind, and kisses his sister as warmly as she kissed him.

They stay like that awhile, kissing, questioning, knowing each other again, until Wanda stills.

“They are coming,” She whispers, and curls small. Her arms wrap around his back, head curls to Pietro’s collarbone. Pietro curls around her, bright eyes watching the door from over Wanda’s head. They wait, and are wary.

 

* * *

 

They are first met by Snowsmoke, fingers leaving frosted trails on the walls, then joined by Vision, stone glowing, after the boy calls. The twins do not uncurl, just watch the door, and refuse to let go of each other.

Vision relaxes to see them, and Wanda realises that she broke her connections to Andrej and the android with her brother’s return. Vision’s hand taps his brow, expression asking, and Wanda shakes her head. Andrej watches them closely, and his eyes briefly narrow before relaxing. Vision watches them, curled so close, with something akin to confusion. Andrej tugs at the android’s sleeve and Vision blinks.

“Will you want someone to talk to Miss Maximoff?” His voice and tone and words are, as ever, polite. Wanda shakes her head.

“I have Pietro.”

“So it _is_ him then?” Andrej speaks up, Sokovian swift off his tongue.

Wanda smiles, and nods. “It’s Pietro.”

Andrej grins and darts off. Vision, still looking confused, stays at the door until Wanda tuts. “Go and tell the others,” She says. Vision’s expression could only reasonably be described as a kicked puppy. Wanda sighs, softly. “I will explain later,” She says. “I promise.”

When they are both gone Pietro presses a kiss to Wanda’s shoulder. “You don’t owe him an explanation,” he says.

“I know.” Wanda’s voice is quiet. “But he saved my life, and he has been kind. He helped when you were--.” She cannot bring herself to say _dead_. “He helped. I want to tell him.”

Pietro sighs and nuzzles her shoulder. “Can we trust them?” he asks, and Wanda shrugs her free shoulder.

“Vision: yes. Andrej: of course. The Widow: I think. I am not yet sure of the others.”

Pietro breathes deep. “You will be careful?”

“Always, brother of mine.”

 

* * *

 

Pietro falls rapidly asleep. Being woken from death, and sprinting on an empty stomach, has not served him well, and Wanda tucks scarlet blankets around pale shoulders and blue hospital scrubs. Wanda strokes her hand through black and silver curls and leaves the room. It is still early enough in the afternoon for the others to all be active still, and Wanda sends out a scarlet feeler, seeking Vision’s mind.

When it reaches him it dissipates, scarlet to burgundy-black and gold spelling out a simple message. _Come to the Cradle._

Without a question or a query Vision goes.

 

* * *

 

The cradle is cleft down the middle from Mjolnir’s strike, and from where Vision tore open what fried circuits could not. Wanda stands at its head, hands circled around her arms. She is half in shadow, where she stands, and Vision isn’t sure what to make of it.

They notice each other, acknowledge each other, but neither speaks.

Until Vision does. 

“You broke the connection.”

Wanda shrugs. “Pietro was back,” She says, as though it explains everything. In a way, Vision supposes, it does. The connection he had had to Wanda’s mind had been a meagre thing, but it’s snapping had left him reeling. The way Andrej’s eyelids had flickered, and that the snow-and-gold bond was no longer visible to Vision’s sight, told him that the same had happened to the boy too.

They lapse into quiet again, silence ringing through the room before Vision asks, “Will you remake it?”

Wanda offers only a wry smile and a shrug. Vision sights inwardly, and changes tack. “I can see your bond to him,” He says. “It is scarlet at your end, and silver-veined-blue at his. It looks woven, more than the lone rope-tethers you made to my mind, and to Andrej’s. It looks how it did when I first saw it, when I was born.”

“Oh,” Is all Wanda says.

Vision continues. “I saw how the threads of it were shorn when your brother died at Novi Grad, saw your scarlet seeking his silver even after you’d destroyed Ultron’s primary. I’ve watched your scarlet draw inward and draw outward, Miss Maximoff, because I cannot _help_ but see it, with this stone in my brow. I saw the tentative start of recovery from a loss I could never comprehend, and today I have seen that recovery shattered by a remade bond.” Vision _does_ sigh then, soft and gentle. “Wanda, I may not have lived long, or know much - I am not even _human_ \- but if you want someone to talk to _please_ know you can come to me. Just because you’ve regained what you lost does not mean you should lose what you have gained. You are safe here, at S.H.I.E.L.D.. You can have both old and new, if you want them.”

Wanda is quiet for a long time, and Vision begins to wonder if he had said something wrong when a scarlet tendril meets his mind, and with it comes memories.

 

* * *

 

Vision observes them from the side, Wanda’s scarlet tendril both holding him apart, and feeding him the emotions of the memory. He watches the day they lost their parents, sees them curled close together and _understands_.

Closeness means trust. Closeness means safety. 

 

* * *

 

The next memory Wanda shows him is slightly silvered, borrowed from her brother’s sleeping brain. They watch from behind Pietro as Wanda’s scarlet seeks his mind.

_ Instinct _ , Wanda’s tendril says to Vision. _It was meant to happen by the nature of our gifts, by the nature of ourselves._

Vision understands. They are linked by their nature, fully, truly, inescapably. Their link is aided by years of closeness, a lifetime of trust, and the curious magic of their gifts. They do not  _need_ others, the way they do each other.

 

 

* * *

The next memory Wanda shows him lies betwixt the previous two in time. They are young, the twins, and discussing something fiercely, switching languages - Sokovian, German, English - with no warning. Then Wanda presses a brief kiss to Pietro’s lips and the memory coalesces.

_ “We must not do that any longer,” Memory-Wanda says. “It is siblinghood to us, but not to them. They will call it--,” _

_ “Incest.” Memory-Pietro’s voice is a whisper. “They would be wrong.” _

_ The small fingers of Memory-Wanda’s hand grasp her brother’s chin. “What does that matter when they have the power to part us? We are **thirteen** Pietro. **Children**. They could send us to different foster homes, different orphanages. They could forbid us from seeing each other.” _

_ “But we are **twins** ,” Pietro says. “We are all we have.” _

_ Wanda’s head bows. “They don’t see it like we do. Until we’re free we **have** to play by their rules. We can’t kiss like that anymore. Even if we know it is because we are siblings, twins, and have no one else. They don’t see it like that.” _

_ Pietro’s head bows, his brow brushing Wanda’s. His hand finds hers, larger fingers enveloping smaller. “And they have the power to part us.” _

The memory pauses there, commanded by Wanda’s scarlet tendrils, and lets Vision take it in. The moment of pausing is painfully intimate, but clearly platonic. Pietro’s hand holds Wanda’s delicately, and though their brows almost touch they watch their own feet and maintain a simple distance, for all their closeness makes it seem smaller than it is.

Vision observes, and Vision _comprehends_.

 

* * *

 

When the scarlet retreats back to Wanda they are both still in the room with the Cradle. Wanda stands nearer now, one hand pressed to Vision’s arm as though to stabilize him. Wanda’s voice is soft.

“I may remake it. I don’t know. But I have my brother back, back from the _dead_. I need to understand that first, relearn, remember being a twin, half a whole. That comes first.”

Vision’s small smile looks almost hopeless to Wanda, but she does not peek into his mind. Instead she shrugs. “Do you understand, Vision?” Her voice is soft, almost affectionate, and Vision nods, shakes his head, and sighs.

“How you could be half a whole, and not whole on your own….” He trails off, without words.

Wanda’s smile is small and soft. “It is all we have ever been, Pietro and I. Twins with no one else. Half the same organism, half of a whole. We don’t have another way of being.”

Vision looks only sad. “Have you ever even tried?”

 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

When Wanda returns Pietro is still asleep. His brow unwrinkles from its frown when she sits beside him, and takes his hand in hers, and they stay like that awhile. Andrej pops his head in, breath misting cold in the doorway, and darts off when Wanda sends happy scarlet tendrils his way. Doctor Cho drops by and runs some tests, the Captain to check, but things are peaceful. Pietro sleeps.

Before long so too does Wanda, curled between Pietro’s back and the wall. Her face is pressed into her brother’s shoulders and she wraps herself in spare blankets of burgundy edged with black and gold.

It is the best sleep she has had since the battle.

 

* * *

 

Pietro sleeps and Pietro dreams. He is aware, in part, of the fact he is a remade creature, of DNA and memories and the Cradle. He knows that his mind is not fully coalesced yet, from the large blue kernel Vision saw him as in Wanda’s mind, the dancing silver moon-seed Wanda gave him and memory after dancing memory. His sleep allows them to settle, to pass across his sight and find their rightful place. Eventually the silver slivers and scarlet strings of memory still and settle, and dreams come out a-dancing.

The memories settling lets Pietro recognise them, from the old nightmare of loss that Wanda’s scarlet brushes back casually, to moments from protests and training. They chase blue butterflies in the woods, and follow scarlet-tailed raptors. In the sky of the dream stormclouds dance, white lightning and scarlet in equal parts. Pietro stands in the midst of a forest, in the midst of a storm, and can feel his sister’s presence everywhere.

The lightning dancing reminds Pietro of another dream, an older dream, of witches dancing in the wood and his new-made mind takes this knowledge and weaves it in. The forest broadens and through the trees he can see a fire.

It does not take him long to reach it. The fire is great and huge, gold and brown and scarlet, all his sister’s colours. At the edges of the flames his blue rests, marking the peak heat of the flames. From behind the flames - or from _within_ them, Pietro isn’t quite sure, - a woman steps. It takes him a moment to recognise his sister.

In this dream, by this fire, she is larger than life. Milky pale skin, tanned slightly darker on her arms and face, hair dark and alive with auburn and scarlet shooting through it from the fire. She is, Pietro notices, quite naked, gooseflesh pricking over her body, making hard small soft peach-coloured nipples. Pietro’s throat is dry as he swallows, and as dream-Wanda begins to dance around the flames.

She dances to a tune Pietro thinks he can hear, some vague ethereal song, like the song of his speed, one that is more of instinct than heard. Scarlet dances from her fingers, drifting down in a way Wanda’s waking scarlet rarely does. She dances about the fire and she is beautiful.

Pietro’s mouth is dry. When he tries to close his eyes he finds he cannot, that the dream keeps pressing the images on him all the same, Wanda dancing, Wanda swaying, Wanda turning and inviting him to join her.

His eyes fly open as his dream-hand meets hers.

 

* * *

 

He is lying on a bed. It is not one he knows, but the blankets over him smell of Wanda, and are her colours. Memories wash over him, of the dream, of dying, of running to Wanda after waking. He remembers sleeping, Wanda perched at the edge of the bed and sighs.

He does not know if he should tell Wanda. He remembered all too clearly, their agreement when they were thirteen, even as he remembers Wanda’s Kiss and his dream. He pushes himself up, leans forward, and notices Wanda. She had been curled behind him, between his back and the wall, under blankets of her own. She is stretched out now, and Pietro sends a single blue stretch of thought toward her mind. Down the bridge a soft red floods out, offering memories, aligning their timelines again. Pietro looks at his sister, peaceful in sleep, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He wants to tell her and he does not. Telling Wanda has consequences, as all things do, but these are not consequences he cares for. Hiding it means none of those consequences, but possibly something worse. They are twins. They are all they have and all they have ever had. Creating a secret would divide them, that Pietro knows.

Pietro scrubs a hand over his face. Without thinking his other hand strokes over Wanda’s hair, gentle, soft and comforting. He recalls his dream. He recalls his old dream. He recalls the agreement they made when they were thirteen and he remembers Wanda and he both breaking it when he came back.

Against, for, tell, do not tell, the arguments turn through his mind. Usually he could debate things out with Wanda, but this… for this he had only himself and what he could offer. His own mind turning.

His own mind, remade from nothing but scraps, and Wanda’s art.

He does not wish to doubt his sister. If he cannot trust her who can he trust? Half a whole, a shared soul, one being in two bodies, he knows how they were like instinct, like home. To doubt her is to doubt himself.

But she said that she feared she had remade him wrong. She doubted herself and doubted him.

Doubt, doubt, doubt. To tell or not to tell. Pietro’s mind spins between the two, even as his mind and memories settle into form. _I am new-made_ , he reminds himself. _Confusion can be expected_.

He glances to his sleeping sister. Her face is half-pressed into the pillow, one hand by her face, one curled uncomfortably beneath her. Pietro’s hand shakes as it strokes through her hair, and he sighs. He wants to know. What his sister thinks, how his mind settles, if he was remade _wrong_.

He does not wish to fail his sister a second time.

 

* * *

 

Wanda wakes quickly. She may be sleeping comfortably, but it is Pietro’s hand shaking her, and that means it is important, that they are unsafe, that something had happened, something was wrong, _something_.

Pietro’s face, when she wakes, is not panicked but there is something wrong. Her hands rise to cup his face, gentle, soft, comforting.

Pietro flinches back.

“Pietro,” She breathes. “What’s wrong?” She forces herself up, tugs blankets with her, and leans against the wall. Her eyes stay fixed on her brother, dark eyes unblinking.

Her brother stays curled, knees drawn up, one hand picking over his scarlet blanket. “What if I was remade wrong?”

Wanda’s inhale shakes, and she reaches for her brother. “You were not,” She whispers, palm running down his back. “I saw your mind as you woke. You _are_ my brother.”

Pietro’s voice is strained as he replies. “How can you be sure? What if Ultron did something, Vision did something, _you_ did something. You said you feared it. What if-”

“Pietro.” Wanda’s voice is soft, and sad. “What makes you wonder?”

He does not speak, but the whirling dervish that encircles his mind parts, and through it comes a monkey made of memory, making its way to her mind. Odd thoughts, old memories, contradictions, uncertainties and his dream.

The laugh Wanda gives is more a sob of relief. “Pietro,” She says, “Brother. It’s alright.” She presses a kiss to his shoulder and Pietro almost flinches. His reactions are slower, lulled by her presence, but still faster than human.

“Wanda.”

Wanda’s sob is more a laugh this time. “I thought I had lost you to fear,” She murmurs, sorrow-relief so rich in her voice that Pietro relaxes and turns. She shakes her head, brow resting on his shoulder. “I thought… . Pietro. What do you think we should do?”

Her mind, just beyond the brink of his, dances in not-unhappy scarlet, and sends memories, swift as angels, to him. They slip through his dervish with edges like swords and seal the route behind before dancing open.

 

* * *

 

The kiss she gave him, of open joy and happiness. Not entirely sisterly, no, because she had been learning what it was to no longer be a sister, to be alone. But loving, longing, glad and happy, rich emotions that Pietro watching knew he had matched.

The memory is also a message: the choice is theirs.

 

* * *

 

Pietro blinks and clears his mind. Arguments have settled, thoughts calmed and he considers the now. He will never deny his sister things she truly needs. A kiss of gladness, even unsisterly given, was what she had needed to give. A kiss in return, equally unbrotherly, was what she had asked. Pietro did not think he could have denied his sister that, even had he wanted to.

The memory of their agreement when they were thirteen rises, unbidden. Pietro lets out a heavy breath.

“What do you need?”

 

* * *

 

It is Wanda’s turn to blink. Pietro had been panicked, almost, and now he is calm. He had woken her because something struck him as too wrong to be borne and now, instead of dividing and deciding, he offered to let her chose where all the weight should fall.

 _As he has always tried to do_ , Wanda reminds herself. _Protector even before brother, and now that causes problems_. Wanda pauses, Wanda thinks.

“I need,” She says, slowly, enunciating carefully, “For you to be alright. For you to decide if you want yesterday, or when we were thirteen. It is not a question of what I need.” Her tone softens. “It is a matter of what you decide.”

Her hand rests softly on his and finally Pietro flips his hand, takes hers in his and relaxes fully.

“Thirteen,” He says. “Better for us both we never break that promise. There are still those with the power to part us.” His smile is small, but not sad. Wanda nods, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Do you want me to check your mind before you sleep?”

Pietro’s head bows as he acquiesces, and Wanda’s fingers skim over his brow before the scarlet delves a-dancing in. Wanda’s soft smile tells him all, even before he feels the scarlet search through his mind.

He is Pietro Maximoff, and he is Wanda’s twin.

**Finis**

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and crit are always much appreciated! The next fic in this series, the Interlude, should post tomorrow, provided I can finish it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated!


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